As told to Chassia Thau by Rachel Katz

 It was a regular Motzaei Shabbos. In the midst of cleaning the Shabbos mess, we got a phone call. We were suddenly informed that my husband needed to go into quarantine because he’d been exposed to a COVID-19 patient on Purim.

We stood there, so shocked we started laughing. We simply didn’t see it coming.

My husband had come down with flu-like symptoms over Shabbos, but I hadn’t thought anything of it. Magen David Adom would come test him within 72 hours; until then, we had to jump into action.

Finish cleaning up the house, pack the bedroom with everything essential, and then some. I took out all my belongings — from now on he was going to be a prisoner in his own room, for 14 days. And me? I took on the role of single mom.

When the kids woke up and discovered their father was locked up in his room, one daughter broke down, another gathered all the courage she could possibly muster.

Sunday morning went okay. Exhausting, but okay. We took a walk outside, got fresh air and decided to make the best of the situation. I was on my A game.

It pained me to hear my husband coughing on the other side of the door. I couldn’t help, couldn’t be there for him, couldn’t relieve any of his pain. I wondered what the test results would be, but deep down I already knew.

In addition to the constant worry over his health, my other fear was taking care of the kids alone for who knows how long. It could be weeks and weeks. When my brain went there, the tunnel seemed endless.

Tuesday arrived, and brought the rain with it. Rain, a coughing quarantined husband and four very active little girls in our small apartment. We experienced a lot of screaming and laughing. Crafts and messes. Yelling and crying. This was the life of “the-family-with-a-father-in-quarantine.” This is my life now, I kept telling myself.

Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, we got the phone call that confirmed it.

My husband received a number — coronovirus patient #365.

That put me and all the girls in lockdown, too. No more fresh air, no more milk and bread runs. With my husband a confirmed patient, I didn’t know when I’d see him again.